


Write A Story On My Skin

by sadboi_syd



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, Bar!AU, M/M, bartender!pete, charles u better enjoy this shit, frank is silly and gerard is a nerd, gerard doesnt drink, hesitant alien/stomachaches era, i am trash, its called el toro pub, ray owns a bar, recovery era, this is like hella fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadboi_syd/pseuds/sadboi_syd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: au where frank walks into a bar with 50 bucks and a shout of "ALRIGHT SO WHO CAN DECIPHER MY TATTOOS" and gerard is the only piece of shit in there with enough nerdy art and literature knowledge to know its a reference to a catcher in the rye</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write A Story On My Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorou/gifts).



> 4 the bae  
> i havent written in a while, this is actually my first post on here  
> enjoy (~^0^)~

Gerard was sitting at the bar sipping on a vodka cranberry without the vodka, chatting with the bartender, when the tiny man burst through the grimy pub’s door with way too much energy than one would expect for one in the morning. He could feel the February night’s cold wrap itself around his limbs with frozen tendrils before the heavy door slammed shut abruptly, the crack snaking across the glass reaching another inch towards the point of Ray giving up and getting the fucking door fixed, for fucks sake. His hazel gaze then snapped away from the entrance and to the newest edition to the cast of characters littering the joint called “El T ro P b” if you were to judge by the name on the neon sign outside, which cast a reddish orange glow onto the grey snow decorating the sidewalk. The man was waving a fifty-dollar bill in the air and babbling animatedly about something. 

“-if you can guess the meaning of all my tattoos,” he called out, his soft Jersey voice giving a clear indication that he was at least tipsy, if not full on drunk. Gerard turned back to the bartender, a hint of amusement in his smirk. 

“Some interesting characters here tonight, huh, Pete?” This was of course a reference to the two blonde girls who got so smashed (and undoubtedly also high on something intense) that they started petting the bus boy, Tyler’s, hair and face, telling him that he was a lovely shade of blue. They were promptly escorted to a taxi and sent home once they started bickering over whether Tyler was cyan or ultramarine. The poor kid had to take a few minutes to calm down after that one; he wasn’t a waiter for a reason. 

“You can say that again, I think some people are actually gonna take him up on his offer, too. That’s a first, usually people around here just tell you to fuck off and shut up,” Pete answered over his shoulder as he mixed yet another ridiculously specific cocktail. Gerard laughed and ran his hand through his short, sunset red hair. Pete served the drink with a disgruntled expression and returned to his friend. “Christ, if people want all these fancy drinks they should go to that fucking club down the street,” he muttered. “On second thought, though, they probably got kicked out of there for being too wasted. Speaking of wasted, you should totally try to guess that dude’s tats.”

“Pete, why the everlasting fuck would I do that.”

“You’re like, all smart and nerdy and artisti- hey! Don’t give me that look, Way, we both know you can leave here fifty bucks richer,” Pete chastised, shooting down Gerard’s evil eye with his own shit-eating grin. “Besides, he’s hot as hell.” Gerard almost sprayed everyone in the immediate vicinity with cranberry juice. He sighed and looked at the dude, who was now sitting with a group of muscular bikers who were regulars at the bar, known to get a bit rowdy as the night progresses, and were touching his sleeves of tattoos and arguing amongst themselves. 

“Noted.” The man was, indeed, quite attractive, with ear length wavy hair the color of the vast nothingness of space, and ink crawling up his arms and neck. He was small, maybe five foot four at best, though not wiry, at all, not in any regard. His face was fucking flawless, with a square jaw and a creamy complexion, with just a tinge of pink to his cheeks, which Gerard attributed to the alcohol. The man was also very punk. He had a black baggy t-shirt for some band that was probably a rock band of sorts, and ripped black skinny jeans with a chain, for his wallet, Gerard assumed, peeking out from under the hem of his shirt. The guy was quite the contrast to Gerard’s Ralph Lauren cardigan and dad jeans. He picked up his juice and sipped it, inwardly pouting at the fact that the poor lighting cast a shadow over the stranger’s eyes, masking the color. Funnily enough, as he was thinking about how much he hated Ray’s cheap attempts at saving electricity, the man raised his head from the people trying to earn some cash (who were completely failing to do so) and locked eyes with Gerard. Hazel met with eyes the color of the underside of a late summer leaf and the dude fucking smirked. He fucking smirked, fuck, he knew Gerard had been checking him out holy fucking shit. Gerard felt his stomach melt and his face burn like it had crash-landed on the surface of Betelgeuse. He turned away as quick as humanly possible without injuring himself from whiplash. “Pete, you are a giant fucking dick and I hate you.”

“Okay, yes, this is true, but may I ask why, exactly?”

“He’s damn gorgeous.” Pete cackled.

“Who’s gorgeous?” someone asked next to Gerard at the same time as someone loudly screamed, “FUCK!” at the top of their lungs, slicing through the usual din of the bar. There was an eerie silence broken only by the hard rock that was quietly thrumming through the speakers as practically every head turned to see what had happened, except, of course, Gerard, who had a pretty good idea of what happened and was focusing on staring determinedly at the wall of alcohol in front of him, face feeling like a shovel full of glowing embers had been dumped on it. The mysterious voice made a grunt of understanding. “So, who’s the man my brother is hopelessly in love with?” 

“Mikey, please. I don’t even know his name. Literally all that anyone here knows is that he’s kinda drunk and he’s offering to give you fifty bucks if you guess the meaning behind all of his tattoos or some dumb shit like that. I think the dude that yelled got it wrong or something,” Gerard answered his younger brother with a nonchalant hand wave. Sue him. He’s from Jersey. “Also, hi, it’s nice to see you too, brother.”

“Oh, Gee, that’s not all you know,” Pete drawled, with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. 

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Mikey laughed. “Are you looking at other men, babe?”

“I would never,” Pete deadpanned. “Oh, speak of the devil!” he exclaimed gleefully, clapping his hands and giving a malicious smirk in Gerard’s direction. Gerard wondered if it was possible for him to drown himself in a third of a cup of watered down cranberry juice. 

“Um…” the dude was looking between an eager looking Pete, an expressionless-yet-somehow-amused looking Mikey, and Gerard who very clearly looked like he wanted to be strapped to a rocket and launched into orbit. “Can I, uh, get a Landshark?” Pete mumbled something along the lines of “oh my shitting Christ yes,” and “thank God he didn’t order another fucking cocktail,” as he nodded and turned to retrieve the beer.

“Want anything, Mikes? On the house,” he added with a wink upon his return, sliding the frosty pale lager towards the ‘really ridiculously fucking hot like what the fuck’ punk man, as Gerard’s apparently fourteen year old brain would say. Gerard stayed silent, staring into his glass plotting revenge on Pete fucking Wentz. Murder wasn’t an option; he didn’t want to break Mikey’s heart. Maiming? No, still too illegal. He’d have to settle for a really cruel prank, maybe something like-

“Ahem.” Gerard was snapped out of his thoughts by his brother clearing his throat. He jerked his head up, eyes narrowed and cheeks flushed, to see Pete and Mikey leaning towards him on both elbows, and the fucking guy was literally hopping onto the barstool and slamming a crumpled bill onto the sticky surface of the shittily polished wooden bar, directly next to him. 

“I was told you wanted to give my challenge a shot?” the man grinned. “I’m Frank.” Frank. It was kinda fitting for him, Gerard thought. He didn’t look like a Jerry. He sighed, swallowed his nerves, and put on his most charming smile. 

“I’m Gerard. And I’m really sorry about Pete, he’s an asshole.” Pete made an indignant noise and commented under his breath about how only Mikey was allowed to call him that. Frank chuckled, and as he listened to the man laugh to himself Gerard realized that fuck, he was fucking falling hard for this guy.

“A pleasure to meet you, Gerard. Shall we commence? Remember, two strikes, third one you lose.” Gerard contemplated backing out, saying a polite, “no, thanks, I never actually wanted to do this,” but forced himself to swallow his words when Frank rolled his right sleeve up to his shoulder, to show off the tattoos decorating his forearm and bicep. 

Fuck.

Gerard didn’t know what impressed him more, honestly. It was either the muscle mass itself or the artwork that decorated it. “Shit, dude, you have a great artist, these are fantastic!” he blurted out, shocking himself. He couldn’t just be letting his thoughts and shit out, that’s dangerous territory. 

“Yeah, Brendon’s pretty great,” Frank mused. 

“Okay, so the Frankenstein’s monster one and the stitches have got to be because horror movies are great, right?” The punk nodded with a fake somber expression. “And the anchor with the ‘n’ and the ‘j’ have to be because you’re from New Jersey, and you want to stay anchored to your roots; you’re proud of them. I can’t think of anything else.”

“Bingo.” Gerard started to get on a roll, pulling back his analysis skills that were lying dormant since art school. He had gotten to the point of only having three tattoos left to guess, a scorpion on Frank’s neck, the word ‘HALLOWEEN’ scrawled across his knuckles, and the ring of typewritten words around his left wrist, “a body catch a body”. Frank was at the bottom of his beer by this point, and El Toro Pub was growing more and more empty as the seconds ticked on. An audience of approximately three other employees had gathered around the group, bumping it up to a grand total of five onlookers. The Heineken clock on the wall facing the bar said it was 2:13 am. Gerard wanted to pretend that he hadn’t been flirting back and forth with Frank the entire fucking time.

“Alright. The knuckles,” Gerard started. 

“The knuckles.” Frank smiled, and Gerard felt a tiny flutter in his stomach as he examined Frank’s hands. They were rough and calloused, in the way a guitar player’s would be. The nails were coated in chipped black nail polish. 

“So, it’s obviously got to do with Halloween, right? So like, Halloween is really important to you. Is it like, your birthday or something?” Gerard was determined, now. He had to get the most time possible with this dude; he had to get to know him. And arguably, there’s nothing more intimate than deciphering someone’s tattoos. Well, maybe sex was, but that didn’t matter too much to Gerard, him being demisexual and all.

“Dude, what the fuck. Are you stalking me? Should I report you to the authorities? How the shit did you know that?” Frank was looking at him in awe. Pete, whose shift had ended forty-five minutes previously, took another sip of his drink (vodka, club soda, and orange juice), and kissed Mikey happily. Joe, the cook, moved out of Pete’s way as he moved to sit on Mikey’s lap. Someone groaned. 

“I guess I’m just really good at figuring people out,” Gerard chuckled. “So, the scorpion… it’s missing a leg. Does it maybe represent, hmm…” he trailed off in thought, with a distant look in his hazel eyes. You could practically see the gears turning in his head. “Oh! Is it that you’ve been knocked down in life, or lost something important, hence the missing leg, but you’re still going to keep shouldering on and fighting, and stay strong like a scorpion. Because they’re like, aah.” Gerard made some strange motion with his arms at the end, symbolizing the barb at the end of a scorpion’s tail stinging something. Someone chuckled, probably Josh or Tyler. “Shut the fuck up, its like, 2:30 and I’m tired. I’m allowed to make weird noises,” he jokingly snapped at no one in particular, laughing to himself. 

“Nope, not at all,” Frank smiled. “It’s actually a funny story. I was in a band at the time, and I had decided, fuck it. I don’t want to ever have a ‘real job’. I want to keep doing what I’m doing. So I’m gonna get a scorpion as high up and noticeable as it can get.” 

“You were in a band?” Gerard asked. 

“Yeah, I played guitar and did some vocals. Why?”

“I’ve just always loved music. And musicians, if I’m being honest.” Gerard was kind of surprised with himself on that one; it was a bold move. Very, very bold. The flush across Frank’s cheeks, however, was reward enough. 

“Oh?” the small man smirked, turning it back around onto Gerard.

“Come on, man, don’t do this to me,” Gerard sighed, embarrassed. 

“Alright, alright, you’ve got one left, and one final chance. This one, funnily enough, knocked out the last few people who tried. Do you have what it takes?” Frank leaned in to whisper in Gerard’s ear, his breath hot, and smelling faintly of alcohol and cigarettes. “You’re pretty damn hot, though, I might just give it to you anyway,” he said quietly, careful to not have any onlookers hear the exchange, and yup, Gerard was gone. His soul had left his body; he was sailing through the stars, weaving in and out of galaxies and soaring through exploding suns. He opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again; there was no doubt in his mind that he looked like a giant fucking idiot. “Okay, so this one is ‘a body catch a body.’ in a typewriter font.”

“Fucking really?” Gerard almost shrieked, howling in laughter. He nearly doubled over. “That’s so obvious though! How did that trip people up? It’s from A Catcher in the Rye, it’s the line from the poem the kid sang wrong, that fucked up Holden Caulfield’s perception of the world, pretty much.” Gerard then went on a tirade explaining exactly how the quote fucked up Holden Caulfield’s perception of the world, in immense detail. 

“Hey Gee?” Mikey interrupted, cutting his brother off.

“Yeah?” 

“Have I ever told you that you’re a giant fucking nerd? Like, it’s a problem at this point.” Gerard laughed, and Frank cracked a coy smile. 

“So, uh, you won, I guess. Here’s your fifty,” Frank said, pushing the bill closer to Gerard. Time seemed to slow down, and he could feel his heart pulsing in his chest. Now that the excitement had died down, Josh went back to wiping down the bar, Joe went back into the kitchen, and Tyler went to grab his dish tub. Pete and Mikey were of course flirting like they weren’t getting married in three months, leaving Frank and Gerard alone, or as close to alone as they could be. 

“Nah, keep it man, I think I want something else as a reward.” Gerard pushed the cash back and looked Frank in the eyes, seeing the light green staring straight back at him, boring into his own. He leaned over, nervous about what he was planning on doing next. “So, this is either gonna go really badly, or really we-” 

He was cut off by Frank’s lips on his. He was surprised at first, but he slowly eased into the kiss, basking in the satisfaction that rolled over him in waves. They both pulled away slowly. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that the whole night,” Frank admitted, as he ordered Gerard another cranberry juice.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & or comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
